#crepe weave

[dpalden]

Almost at the end of the warp. Hand dyed warp of tencel, wool and bamboo with tencel and bamboo weft. A crêpe weave on 8 shafts, straight draw.

[serabellyms]

[jewellery-box]

Dress in two parts (bodice, skirt)

Charles Frederick Worth (English (active in France), about 1825–1895)

French, about 1888

Silk warp-printed plain weave (faille) and silk plain weave (crepe)

MFA Boston

[history-of-fashion]

1945 Woman's ensemble (cape, blouse, and skirt) by Gilbert Adrian (United States)

rayon plain weave (crépe), rayon satin-back crepe

(Los Angeles County Museum of Art)

[the1920sinpictures]

1930 Chanel evening gown with scarf in silk plain weave (crepe). From Fashion of Bygone Days, FB.

[luveline]

steve zombie!au…. maybe in this new camp the reader is placed to do the scouting for supplies/ protecting the camp while steve is the one that has to stay in the camp and starts worrying over her a lot? love your writing jade 🫶🏼

thanks gorgeous! —you and steve settle into your new jobs. he worries, you dote. fem!reader, 1.3k

You watch in mild frustration as another firework shoots up into the air and pops. It doesn't break the treeline, but it's loud. 

"Should we really be doing this?" Joyce asks. 

Hopper grunts in annoyance and begins a spiel you've had the misfortune of hearing twice already this morning. The fireworks are going to be an alarm, a code in case another undefeatable foe crosses the proximity line. Newly appointed guard and on duty, if someone were to approach now, it would be you that lights the firework. 

You kind of hate your new job. You haven't met the new and elusive leader of the camp you've merged with, but you've met his underling Wendy, and she assigned you a job. You're on guard duty and potential runs, Steve's on childcare, and when he asked if you could switch, she said point blank No.

Steve's less than pleased, though he likes being with the kids. 

"What use is a warning if we draw other people?" Joyce asks. Frustration must be in the air. 

"Kid," Hopper says. It takes you a good handful of seconds to realise he's talking to you. "You can go. Take the evening off." 

"Are you sure? Wendy's kinda stern." 

"I can deal with Wendy." 

You pat the pommel of your sword and nod, starting back through the trees toward camp. Hopper's more than capable of looking after himself despite the argument that awakens as soon as you're far enough away. 

Walking back into camp makes you feel weird. More than half the people you see are strangers, cleaner, happier than anybody from The College, though they're starting to merge. You weave between a procession of runners back with a literal wheelbarrow of cans from the grocery store a half a mile east from here. They spray painted on the windows that the place was full of geeks months ago and it remains untouched. Sneaky trick, but one you can appreciate if it keeps all the kids alive. 

You can hear them as you approach one of the portables. They aren't truly portable buildings; if you ever wanted to move further into Michigan, they'd stay behind. But they have walls and ceilings and it makes the world feel a little less alien for the kids, who mostly grew up for the last year, nearly two, in The College. 

You put your sword against the side of the wall and run up the silver metal steps to ease the door open. 

Steve's sitting at the back of the room with four other adults, a little girl in his lap, her head on his chest. She can't be older than five. 

At the front of the room sits Sarah, reading from a big storybook. There are no lights on, but she has a torch with different coloured crepe papers taped to the front, and she shines them when different emotions come into the story. Right now, the story is sad, and a light blue light kisses the cheeks of the children in the front row. 

They barely notice your arrival. Steve, however, heaves a visible sigh of relief, the arm he's wrapped genially over the little girl's back moving up incrementally at the sight of you. 

"Hello," you whisper, sitting down next to him quietly. 

"Hi," the little girl whispers. 

"Hi," you say back. She isn't one of The College kids, you'd know her face. "Who are you, honey?" 

"I'm Mabel." 

"Hi Mabel, I'm Y/N." 

"Y/N's my girlfriend," Steve whispers, grabbing your hand for a squeeze. You squeeze back. 

Mabel looks up at Steve with a smile. "Do you kiss?" Mabel asks. 

You laugh, startled, and half the kids turn their heads to see what's so funny. Steve shushes you like a proper teacher, finger over his lips until they all turn back to their story. 

"We do sometimes to say hello," Steve whispers, quieter than before. "Why?"

"My boyfriend is a bad kisser," she says. 

You tamp down a smile badly, amusement colouring your words, "Honey, I think you should stick to holding hands." 

"I think so," she agrees. 

Steve pats her shoulder to show his agreement. She cuddles in and turns her attention back to the story. Steve meets your eyes over her head and you both laugh with closed mouths, hot breaths pushed out of your noses. 

When the story's finished and the room is too dark to stay any longer, Jonathan arrives to cart off his boat load of fostered brethren, as do the other adults. It's nice to see how many of them accept children who aren't theirs with open arms. Steve carries Mabel until the very last second when Julie, Mabel's older sister, comes to collect her. 

"Did you know she has a boyfriend?" Steve asks Julie. 

"Is that what she said?" Julie asks fondly, tapping Mabel on the tip of her nose. "You're silly. No boyfriends until you're ten, at least." 

Mabel blushes and hides her face. 

"Will she forgive you?" you ask Steve as they leave. 

He hugs you close, suddenly. At the doorway of the portable with the other 'teachers' still inside cleaning up the kids' mess, you aren't expecting him to be outwardly affectionate. 

"I'm her favourite, she'll forget by tomorrow." Steve hugs you tighter still, prompting you to hug back. He groans as soon as you do, as though your touch is a great relief. 

"Is everything okay?" you ask. 

"I worry about you when you're gone." 

"I know, but it's no different than yesterday. They didn't even need me, that's why Hopper sent me back. It's not dangerous." 

"It's obviously dangerous." Steve's cheek pushes against the side of your head, almost nuzzling you. "It's the best part of my day when you come back to me." 

You feel heat rise to your face, a hot flush of embarrassment that licking over every inch of skin. "Steve," you mumble. 

He squeezes your waist and has you take his weight on your chest, bending you backward. "I love you." 

"I love you too," you utter.

Steve pulls away from you, something sweet and soft in the set of his mocha brown eyes. "I know. I think that's why I freak out so much." 

"You'd miss being adored," you tease. 

"By you, yeah." He gives you a long look. You know before he's moved even a millimetre that he's going to give you another thankful hug, lips at your ear as he confesses, "I'd miss you more than anything." 

You hug him back with your own relief —you've loved Steve for a very, very long time. It's an unexplainable feeling to know he loves you back, and fiercely. Somewhere in the past is a girl laying in his lap in the woodland bordering an endless intersection highway, wishing he'd want you back. You can't tell her that everything will be okay, that you'll get through it safe and sound, but you could at least tell her that there's something worth living for at the end of the seemingly insurmountable. Someone who worries about you when you're less than 100 yards away. 

"You worry too much," you say, pushing his chest gently to separate your hug. You look him straight in the eye. "We're good at finding each other again. And I'm not going anywhere in the first place." 

Steve exhales slowly. "Good. I hate when you go places." 

"Me too. Let's stay here forever." 

You both know it's an impossible thing, but the hypothetical is nice. You can see the weight of the worry Steve carries on his shoulders, worry in his eyes, but he's carrying a lot of love too. You wish it wasn't all so heavy. 

[discountalien-pancake]

Behold, friends! Look upon my new acquisition with envy! 5 meters of handwoven silk, a recreation of historical Vietnamese textiles made by Vietnamese artisans. The project was organized by La Quoc Bao (barolaw on instagram) and after many, many complications and a year and a half of waiting, I finally have this in my hands.

It is unlike any modern silk textile I’ve ever handled. It is most similar to Indian handwoven silks of similar weight, but the drape is more fluid and the weave has more texture. It’s not slippery like habotai or charmeuse, not crisp like taffeta or organza, nor is it pebbly and bouncy like crepe de chine. The shine is subtle and it’s lightweight but not see-through.

[bismuthburnsblue]

thank you so much!!! i will give all of these a go- i have a triple stitch on my machine so ill see if thats the key- i think part of the issue is just /how/ stretchy my fabric is (one way it doubles- two inches stretches to 4, and the other it triples- two inches becomes 6) im not sure a stitch is ever gonna stretch as much as my fabric does

its my understanding that most of my seams dont need to stretch too much- im making leggings (moods ixia leggings pattern) so its mostly vertical seams, and the bigger stretch is cut around my legs so its really only the waist where i need it super stretchy if i understand right?

i would like to avoid flatlining if possible- the whole reason i picked my ~mystery~ fabric is because of its slight sheerness (i really have no idea what it is- it was in a by-weight bin labelled tshirt but was completely different to the rest of the things in there- its definitely knitted and is super lightly and drapey- i described it as knitted tights because its the only thing i could compare it to. maybe a very thin jersey??? )

this is what it looks like if thats helpful at all- its already basted into a glove here but it helps show the way it sheers out as it stretches too

hello sewing people! im about to use stretch fabric for the first time and i would love ANY tips you have <3

in specific for my project: the fabric is very thin + very stretchy (im not sure exactly what it is but its almost like knitted tights?) and in trying to calibate my machine im finding either: none of the stitches are stretchy enough OR after stretching the seam ripples (wasnt doing it before stretching)

i do own an overlocker but that wasn't my ideal choice for sewing this all if possible so if anyone has a suggestion for fixing these issues id really appreciate it!

(or just any stretch tips! id be grateful <3)

[sun-aries]

Hands (totk zelink)

OK i cracked. TOTK has me in my feels right now and I needed to write. It's been a couple months so I'm rusty, but If you like it, send some prompts and I'll whip up some one-shots!

Zelda couldn’t help but notice it. It’d started subtly enough, with his hand weaving into hers as they walked through the meadows of Hyrule Field. She’d heard the sigh as it left his lips, unbidden and trembling, but the wordless sound mirrored how she felt so precisely that she didn’t question it. It’d felt so right to touch his skin again – to be in her own skin again – that she met his gaze with a fluttering laugh and squeezed his fingers.

Yet as they got back into the rhythm of their lives, the scholar couldn’t help but notice that he’d made quite a habit of it. When they returned to Lookout Landing for the first time since her return and he’d taken her hand to climb the short flight of stairs, she’d passed it off as his typical chivalry and shook her head with mirth. “I’m fine,” she insisted, and he nodded, but didn’t reply and certainly didn’t let go.

Days had passed and it happened more and more often. Finally back in Hateno, he’d reached for her hand as she reached for a truffle, darting his eyes away when she’d looked at him curiously and yet leaving his hand on hers. Or as she lifted the woven basket into her hand, he’d covered it over the handle, avoiding her eyes as he did so.

It wasn’t as if they’d never held hands before, of course. In fact, it wasn’t the first time she’d felt his hands at all, calloused and rough against the smoothness of her skin, early in the morning or late in the nights. She couldn’t count the times on her fingers, in fact. But it’d been something different entirely - something raw - since she returned, and she could feel it in the trembles.

It was almost as if he’d been trying to make up for letting her slip through his fingers.

Zelda didn’t hold it against him - she couldn’t. She’d been there after all, felt the gravel shift beneath her feet and watched him dive after her without thought into the pitch-black chasm.

But she knew him and she knew it was eating at him – that it had been since they parted. Zelda had seen the desperation as the pads of their fingers just barely brushed one another, seen the fear in his eyes just before falling to the abyss and disappearing in a sphere of light. And now, it was as if he needed to feel the weight of her hand and the touch of her skin, to know that she was real and tangible before him.

Golden light awoke Zelda the next day in their little cottage, filtering though the windowpanes. She could hear the pan sizzle on the fire and the careful clatter of dishware and smiled to herself. After stretching out her muscles, more relaxed than she’d felt in ages, she placed her feet flat on the ground and went down to greet him.

Link’s back was turned to her, but he tensed for a moment when he heard the wood creak, as if suspended in disbelief. Then he’d resumed as quickly as he’d paused.

“Good morning.”

He turned his head to the side, a smile tightening his cheeks, and warmth bloomed through her. “Good morning.”

“That smells delicious,” the scholar commented, snaking her arms around his waist and pressing a kiss onto his shoulder as she sneaked a peek. “You’re making my favorite?”

He shrugged, but that smile was still ever present on his cheeks, and she swore it got bigger the closer she got. “You deserve it,” he simply said.

They’d plated the crepes at the table, steaming and fresh with fruits on the side, and she’d already started perusing through the papers, quickly noticing just how often her name popped up in her absence. She’d have to make quite a bit of stops at stables, it seemed.

She’d placed the paper down to take another bite when Link did it again, reaching across the table to curl his hand into hers, and she was surprised to find him studying her quite intensely. There was rosiness in his cheeks and at the tips of his ears, his blue eyes searching her, and suddenly she felt her own skin get warm under his undivided attention. “Link?”

His eyes darted down to their hands, his thumb brushing over her knuckles ever so gently. She could tell he had something to say, the words hanging on the tip of his tongue, but words never came easy to him and she was there to help now. “I’m right here,” she said finally, assertively. The noise that escaped him, a gruntled sob almost, shot through her chest like an arrow. “Look at me, Link.”

He shook his head. “I can’t-” he tried, his mouth dry, voice hoarse. He looked up and though his eyes were rimmed and red, he hadn’t yet shed a tear. But it was okay: she’d shed enough lately for the both of them. “I can’t let you go again.”

She had no words for that. It was unusual for her, especially since the Calamity’s defeat, to be at a loss of words, but she had no guarantees for him, no promises to make. It was clear then that life had a cruel way of tearing them apart.

But at the very least, they were good at finding each other again.

So then, she’d simply encompassed his hand with both of hers and raised it to her lips. “I will always come back to you,” she vowed. He took a moment just to treasure the feeling, the familiarity, and the weight of her hands.

“I won’t rest until you do.”

[dpalden]

The cloth is off the loom and washed.

Tencel, wool and bamboo dip dyed warp. Tencel and bamboo Weft. Crêpe weave on 8 shafts from Oelsner, a book I have had since 1970 also available @handweaving.net. The cloth is more golden than appears here.

#

[thekimonogallery]

Rinzu kimono Date: 1935-1940 A rinzu (figured silk) kinsha (fine crepe) silk kimono featuring abstract stenciled fan motifs against a 3"-wide alternating medium-blue/light-blue vertical stripes. These two shades of blue are the effect of a single blue color that due to the rinzu technique, reflect light differently because of the two weaves involved.

[mariacallous]

Blintzes are one of Shavuot’s most popular dishes. Long associated with Ashkenazi cooking, the light and airy hug of the blintz pancake envelopes pillowy fillings such as whipped farmers cheese or fruit compote. To call it a crepe is like calling chicken soup consommé. It sounds more fancy, but it lacks the tradition and warmth. 

For Florence Tabrys, a Holocaust survivor, blintzes were a lifeline to her former life near Radom, Poland. I spoke to Florence when writing my first book “Recipes Remembered, a Celebration of Survival,” a compendium of stories and recipes I gathered from Holocaust survivors. I learned that as a child, Florence and her sister were separated from their parents in 1942 and sent to work in a munitions factory. They were eventually moved to Bergen-Belsen where they remained until liberated by the British army. Florence never saw her parents again, but the memories of her childhood favorite foods sustained her throughout the years. Her sweet and creamy cheese blintzes became a family tradition; she would prepare them in large batches and freeze them so they would always be at the ready.  

Topping blintzes is always a game of chance. For those growing up in Poland, most likely it was whatever was on hand from yesterday’s breakfast or Sabbath lunch. Hanna Wechsler, a survivor of Auschwitz, described her mother’s “naleshniki” as a cross between a thin crepe and a traditional blintz. She remembers her mother filling them with strawberry preserves, chopped nuts and a touch of sugar, then topping them with a strawberry sauce. Hanna described her experience in Auschwitz to me in the most poignant way. Her mother would sneak out of the barracks and bring back food that had been stolen from the camp’s kitchen to sustain Hanna. She said, “My mother gave birth to me every day we lived in Auschwitz, because without her I would not have survived.”  

As an homage to these remarkable women I present Florence Tabrys’ cheese blintzes topped with Hanna Wechsler’s strawberry sauce. Enjoy them on Shavuot and all year long. And remember, the thread that weaves Jewish food is vital but fragile, and needs to be lovingly maintained. 

Notes:

The strawberry sauce will keep for 1-2 weeks in the fridge. You can also follow the same preparation using frozen blueberries or raspberries.

You can freeze the prepared blintzes (following Step 6) and fry them at a later time.

[koiishyy]

The death of peace of mind (time is a thief)

ღ summary : Your keen sense for imminent threats and disaster's goes haywire during an otherwise once in a lifetime festival, and if you were given one more minute, then everything might have been different. pairing : porco galliard x braun! reader tags/content warnings : graphic depictions of violence, swearing, depictions of a panic attack and survivors guilt. pre-established relationship, hurt/comfort. a/n: this is the first reader fic i've uploaded to tumblr since i was fourteen, be gentle with my soul pls. enjoy!

₊ . ⋆ ⁺ ݃ ⁺ ⋆ . ₊₊ . ⋆ ⁺ ݃ ⁺ ⋆ . ₊₊ . ⋆ ⁺ ݃ ⁺ ⋆ . ₊₊ . ⋆ ₊ . ⋆ ⁺ ݃ ⁺ ⋆ . ₊₊ . ⋆ ⁺ ݃ ⁺ ⋆ . ₊₊ . ⋆ ⁺ ݃ ⁺ ⋆ . ₊₊ .

There’s a taste lingering on the tip of your tongue.

It’s sickeningly sweet and accompanied by an icy chill that sends goosebumps pricking across your biceps. Dribbling down the side of your hand, it trickles across your skin towards your sleeve. At this rate, it’ll stain the cream-colored uniform. With another lick, you quell the racing liquid.

Strawberries.

It tastes like well-ripened strawberries.

Ice cream isn’t a luxury you’re often afforded within the Liberio internment camp. It’s one of many foods that is solely attainable past the gates. A delicacy that the Marleyans decided to withhold from the spawns of devils. You can stain your hands with the blood of their enemies and do their dirty work, but they can’t even allow the simple, regular pleasure of ice cream.

Today is a different tale, however. Today is a celebration. The war against the Allied Forces took longer than predicted, but even with the countless setbacks, Marley’s victory reigns true.

All thanks to the race they despise so much, of course.

Now, there’s vendors packed, lining the streets of Liberio. Exotic foods and little knick-knacks sit front and present at every booth. It’s supposed to put the foreign guests at ease and make them feel happy that they signed a peace treaty with the country that proceeded to massacre them. There’s supposed to be a play about what you have no idea—at some point in the debrief you had tuned out Zeke’s voice.

The younger candidate’s run amok before you, weaving through the crowd with excitement gleaming in their eyes. Every sweet treat entices them, and every savory dish catches their wonder-filled eyes. Of course, your sister is among them; in fact, Gabi is the most vocal of them. Her brown eyes ogle fascinated over a monstrosity of a chocolate drizzled crepe, the desire to stuff her belly full of the unique pastries setting her up for stomach-aching punishment later.

She’s babbling to Reiner, whom, for once, you’re grateful for, over the treat. He’s been graciously paying for the food, even at your protests.

Over the years of your youth, you’ve butted heads more times than you’d like to admit with your cousin. His arrogance over being a half-blooded Marleyan being the biggest argument starter. Now, after he returned from Paradis, he’s different. Different in a way you can’t quite put your finger on. Whatever he went through with the island devils changed him. You don’t argue anymore, not like you used to.

Pieck has also been keeping up well with the candidates, trailing after them and engaging in conversation. You watch as money exchanges hands and Gabi receives her crepe. Pieck laughs as she practically inhales it after the first bite. You even manage to capture the faint crack of a smile from Reiner.

Udo and Zofia stand off to the side. Udo does most of the talking you notice. The kid has the innate ability to chatter on about any topic. Zofia listens, never once interrupting him or telling him to quiet down.

A little ways away, you spot the Grice brothers, who have ventured just a tad bit further than the group. Colt ruffles Falco’s hair, which earns him annoyed swats from Falco. You’re surprised that Falco isn’t glued to Gabi’s side.

Everyone’s having a fantastic time. Plenty of laughter is being had, and delicious food is being consumed and enjoyed. It’s good company. It’s a beautiful day. Most of the veteran warriors have even let their guards down.

Everyone is happy. So why can’t you be?

“Your ice cream’s melting.”

The words jolt you violently from your endless thoughts. Physically, your head recoils, jerking upwards in the direction of the familiar voice. In the midst of staring off into space, Porco has retreated to your side. He looks at you with a hint of concern and a wealth of curiosity written across his features.

Your eyes trail towards the half-eaten ice cream cone tucked in your grasp. It threatens to become a watery soup. The pink-tinted liquid trails in multiple lines down your hands, sticky and warm now.

“Shit,” You hiss softly, transferring the cone between your hands. You shake the hand covered in liquid, flinging droplets of ice cream against the ground. You’re not even sure why you’re still holding onto it—your appetite has long gone. Porco sighs, pulling a brown napkin from his jacket pocket. He extends it in your direction and you gladly take it. “Thanks.”

“What’s on your mind?” He asks.

“What?” You blink, tossing the ice cream into a nearby garbage bin. Shaking your head, you wipe your hands clean. “Nothing.”

Porco gives you a knowing look—a look you despise. A frown tugs at your lips. He never misses the slightest change in your behavior. You hate it.

“You always finish your food.” Porco points out. “Lying to me is stupid; why don’t you just tell me?”

He’s right; you hate that he’s right. Lying to him is stupid, considering you’re more honest with Porco than anyone else. You’re being difficult for no reason.

Well, you do have a reason, just not a particularly good one.

“I just have a bad feeling.”

Porco’s eyebrows furrow. “About this and the play?” He inquires, and you nod in response. “The allied forces have already signed the treaty. The war is over. No one would be dumb enough to plan an attack in Liberio anyhow.”

“Treaties are broken all the time.” You remind him.

Enchanting hazel eyes trail over your face, and your heart skips a beat. “It’s your gut, isn’t it?” Porco asks.

Instinctively, your hand grazes against your abdomen, a nauseating feeling building in your stomach. “My gut’s never wrong.” You say. “You should know, it’s saved your ass more times than I can count.”

“Not every time.” Porco argues. “Also, I save my own ass and everyone else's—and yours too.”

You roll your eyes. “Name one time I’ve been wrong.”

Porco’s lips part, the resemblance of a word forming on them, only for no sound to come out. They bob open and closed, and you can almost visibly see the gears turning in his brain. He looks stumped. He struggles for a moment, too stubborn to accept the truth, before finally relenting to the glaring reality.

Your gut has never been wrong.

This keen sense for imminent disaster was one of the reasons you earned your warrior candidacy. Gabi calls it your sixth sense. You could sense a threat from a mile away. No one could ever pull a stealth attack on you because your gut was never - and has never been wrong.

Porco’s eyes comb the crowd before wrapping one of his large hands around your wrist. He gently tugs you to an abrupt stop, redirecting your course to a secluded portion of the street—in an alleyway between two nearby buildings. The group continues onward, temporarily oblivious to the loss of two of its members.

Porco turns to you, serious as ever. His intense gaze causes butterflies to awaken and flutter about in your stomach. “Say your gut’s right; do you think we’d need to be worried about it?” He asks, his hand falling from your wrist to your hand and curling his fingers around your own. “It’d have to be one hell of a sneak attack.”

An exhausted, tense sigh falls from your lips. “Of course it would, but you saw how badly Reiner’s armored titan was destroyed by the artillery.”

“That’s because Reiner’s useless.” He grumbles under his breath.

You scowl, continuing with your train of thought. “And Pieck’s equipment takes precious time to transport and set up—time we won’t have.”

Apprehension lingers in him, but you can tell he believes you—or at the very least in you. Your eyes flicker across his face, knowing that he trusts you and that this pointless questioning is only for his peace of mind. He knows you would never be this worked up over something if you didn’t believe it. He knows you. He knows you.

So, he relents.

“I’ll let Pieck know.” Porco says, his hand trailing up to your cheek. He cups the side of your face, sighing. You lean into his touch—his soft, gentle touch. It’s a side of Porco that only you see regularly. “No one will trust just a gut feeling—especially not from us. So stay alert, okay? Stay near me until this is over.”

Relief floods through you instantaneously, and you nod. “I’ve got your back.”

“And I’ve got yours.” Porco smirks. He gazes at you for a moment, his cheeks growing a pinkish hue to them. His usual cool confidence falters. Shyly, he murmurs, “You look pretty today; did I tell you that?”

“No, you didn’t.” You grin. “But I’m only pretty today, though?” You tease.

“What? Well, no, of course not.” Porco flusteredly stammers out. A giggle breaks through your lips. “You look pretty every day; just today you—ah, goddammit, nevermind—forget it.”

It’s rare that you get moments like these. Moments where you are not warriors or dirt-blooded Eldians. Moments where your lives are simple and you get to act like every normal couple.

Embarrassed by your teasing, Porco grumpily attempts to depart. Softly laughing, you tug him back to you. “C’mon, I’m kidding, Pock.” You say, pulling him in by his jacket. “Stay with me. Just for another minute, please?”

He can never resist those puppy-dog eyes of yours. Porco sighs and obliges. “One more minute.”

The two of you lock eyes, and the world dissolves around you. Porco leans down, pressing his lips to yours. One kiss, two kisses, three. His lips envelope yours, gentle but a little sloppily. His hand slides up the small of your back, keeping your body pressed into his.

It’s bliss. Loving Porco is a private affair; these moments that bear the threat of the public eye are few and far between. You cherish them, silently wishing to scream your love from the rooftops. A wish that will never come to fruition—not with your positions.

Coming up for air, you pull back. Still not wanting to break the bubble just yet, Porco leans to press his forehead against yours. The tip of your nose kisses his, and a small smile tugs at your lips. Your eyes lull shut once more, savoring every moment of this temporary peace.

Until you hear the distinct sound of someone calling for you, Gabi’s voice rings across the streets. Your eyes spring open, and you catch a glimpse of her on the main road, Reiner in tow. You still, watching as they disappear down the street.

“Minute over.” You murmur.

Porco hums in response. “Minute over.” He echoes, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s go.”

---

One more minute.

Clawing at your throat, bile threatens to spill over from you. There’s an aching in your chest, a hammering against your ribcage. Your heart threatens to crack the very ribs that protect it. Your footsteps feel heavy, weighted by cement. There’s a dull pain thudding behind your dry, bloodshot eyes, the capillaries in them threatening to burst at the seams.

You wish you would have stayed in that alleyway for just one more minute.

Corpses would still litter the streets of the place you call home, crimson blood pooling against the concrete and staining the pavement. The hospitals would still be overfilled—maximized to their capacity—and even then, with patients scattered across the hallways. Smoke would still billow, flames roaring in the midst of building debris. The crisp, icy water of the sea would still hold the remnants of Marley’s naval fleet—pieces of their vessels floating aimlessly across the ocean.

A minute wouldn’t have prevented this. A minute wouldn’t have fixed this.

But for a minute, the vile image of Zofia’s pulverized upper body wouldn’t be on repeat in your mind—the mental image of her limp legs connected to nothing haunting you whenever you squeezed your eyes shut. A minute would have spared you the feeling of Udo’s arm slipping from your grasp in the midst of the panic. A minute would have given you the opportunity to hold your sister close, keeping Gabi by your side and never letting her go. Another would have prevented her from boarding that airship and taking Falco with her.

Breathe.

You have to order yourself to take deep breaths, lest you claw at your skin and tear the feeling of guilt out of your muscles. The miserable feeling clutches your chest like a vise, constricting your lungs. Tears threaten to spill from the corners of your eyes. You blink them back—you don’t get to cry, not yet.

Breathe.

Forcing out another sputtering breath is like swallowing a hot coal. The acidic burn in your throat is only reinforced by the action. You keep swallowing, attempting to provide some sort of aid to no avail.

The Paradis devils. Eren Yeager. They’ve destroyed your home and killed innocent civilians who had nothing to do with the Warriors actions. And now they have Falco and your sister—your baby sister.

Through the shroud of grief, there is only panic.

Is she a prisoner of war? Is she dead? Are they going to torture her for information? Will they use the same methods that Marley does? You don’t even want to think about it.

Your gut tells you she’s alive.

And it’s so hard to breathe.

Breathe.

You failed them.

It’s clear as day, plain and simple. You should have spoken up and told someone with a higher ranking about your gut feeling. Instead, you doubted your judgment. General Magath might have listened, though the rest really would have never believed something as silly as a gut feeling.

But you did fail them: Zofia, Udo, Gabi, Falco, Pieck, Reiner, Colt...

Porco.

Oh god, Porco.

You finally reach his bedside, unsteady and five seconds away from completely unraveling. The feeling of breaking completely only intensifies as your eyes roam Porco’s unconscious body. The Warriors took a brutal assault from Eren Yeager, one that not even your gut could have predicted.

Temporarily, relief floods you. Porco is alive; his body is regenerating. It’s clear the doctors have done all they can for him, the only course of action to allow the titan’s power to complete the rest.

It’s the worst shape you’ve ever seen him in after a battle.

You practically collapse into a nearby chair, unable to stand on the two feet that have been carrying you throughout Liberio tonight. All you can do for a moment is stare at him, watching as his chest slowly rises and deflates. He’s alive. He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive...

And Udo and Zofia are not.

Shakily, your hand reaches out for Porco’s, his fingers clammy and cold to the touch as you clasp your hand around his. Thousands of emotions rush through your veins, and your mind fights tooth and nail to make sense of all of them. You cling to him, the relief of him being alive and the guilt of being glad that he is alive swirling within you all at once. How are you going to be glad he’s alive when your sister is gone and people are dead? How are you going to feel glad he’s alive when you should have been by his side in the first place?

You don’t know.

You break.

The tears come pouring out in rapid succession. “I’m sorry.” You say this through gritted teeth, lowering your head against Porco’s arm. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left your side.”

You fall asleep curled over his bedside, his hand in yours, clinging on for dear life.

---

Porco doesn’t wake for a while, even after his body has recuperated.

Over the span of his unconsciousness, you’ve been flip-flopping between the hospital and your home in what little free time you’re offered, checking on your parents and giving your aunt updates on Reiner.

Your parents are wrought with grief, convinced that Gabi has been killed. The crying is incessant from your mother, while your father is stone-cold and quiet. But you know better—Gabi is not dead. You don’t tell them that, though; the fate of her being alive in the hands of the island devils might be worse than her being dead.

When Porco does wake up, you’re there.

You barely register the subtle flex of his fingers against yours; he is far too busy spacing off. Porco stirs to life, a pained grunt erupting from his lips. His eyes flutter open, adjusting to the haze of his newfound surroundings and trying to come to terms with what he remembered before blacking out. By the time you notice, he’s already speaking.

“You're going to squeeze my fingers off.” Porco’s raspy voice grumbles from beneath you. Dazed, his tired eyes peer up at you from beneath heavy lids.

His first words to you almost want to make you laugh—or cry—solely because of the fact that he’s speaking. Porco’s always been terrible with words. When he confessed his love to you, it took you a good ten minutes to actually understand what he was saying. It’s one of the most endearing things about him.

But you can’t muster a laugh, and you’ve almost cried your body's weight in water. There’s nothing left for you to do besides softly gasp, “You’re awake.”

"Yeah, and I hurt like hell.” Porco murmurs, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. You turn and reach for the water at his bedside as he props himself up. He squeezes your hand as he takes it. “What happened?”

Your body stills, reforming itself into something statue-like. One wrong move, and you're certain your limbs will crumble into dust. Regardless of what you believe, you have to tell him everything, much like you had to fill in Pieck when she awoke.

So you do. You tell Porco everything that has happened or did happen as a result of Paradis’s raid on Liberio. You recount the death toll as you know it, including Zofia and Udo. You assure him that his parents are okay. You tell him the effort to rebuild the destruction and scrub the city clean is already under way. You tell him about Pieck and Reiner, you tell him about Zeke.

Much like you did, Porco goes through a range of emotions. The prevalent one is anger; you can see it bubble and dwell beneath his skin. A fierce look glints in his eye, and you let him break into a tangent, surprised that he managed to keep his anger controlled this long. Deep down, you know he blames himself, much like you do.

Once he cools, he looks at you. “How’s Gabi?” He asks.

Your mouth runs dry. You had been purposefully pushing that part of the story until the bitter end. “Gabi’s….Gabi’s gone.” You strain out.

“Gabi’s dead?” Porco’s eyes grow wide. He leans forward, all attention on you.

You shake your head. “Gabi’s not dead.” What little tears you can produce struggle their way out, burning white-hot at the corners of your eyes. “S-she’s gone. They took her. She boarded that damn airship, and Falco went with her.”

It becomes a struggle to breathe again. The all-consuming panic crashes over you like a tidal wave. You wish you could be stronger about it, like you have been, but in the presence of Porco, you shatter all over again.

“Hey," Porco coaxes, tugging at you. “C’mere.”

You crawl into the creaky hospital cot with him, careful about where you put pressure. You don’t care what your position is or who sees it; you need him. Porco seems to have the same sentiment as he guides you. You rest your head against his chest, thankful for the slow, steady beat of his heart that thuds in your ears.

“She’s gone, Pock. They took her and Falco, and they killed Zofia, and it’s all my fault.” You whimper against his chest, once again fighting back the trickling downpour on your cheeks. Absent-mindedly, Porco’s fingers comb through your hair.

“Don’t say that.” Porco firmly commands. “This isn’t your fault. This isn’t anyone’s fault but those fucking island devils'. I swear-“

“Porco.”

He sharply inhales, running his free hand along his mouth. “What?”

“I should have had your back.” You say, curling into his body. “I’m - I'm really glad you’re alive.”

Porco’s fingers grow still in your hair. You hear the quick skip of his heartbeat, and your eyes flicker to his face. A faint smirk pulls at his lips. “They can’t kill me that easily, not when I have you to come back to.” He tells you. Porco pulls you as close as he can, mushing your bodies together. “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “We’ll get Gabi back, I promise. Whatever it takes.”

You believe him, body and soul, because you know him. Nodding at his words, face brushing against the rough fabric of his shirt, you mold yourself against the shape of his frame. You clutch to the only thing that makes sense in the world at the moment—tired and weary.

“I love you.” You murmur.

A quick second passes, and you begin to believe he hadn’t heard you, until he murmurs back a soft "I love you, too.”

And in that minute, you wish you could stay in his arms forever.

[history-of-fashion]

ab. 1942 Dark blue afternoon dress with ruffles and peplum by Robert Piguet (Paris)

regenerated cellulose, dark blue, satin weave, crepe de chine

(Kunstgewerbemuseum Berlin)

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 45, 7 novembre 1897, Paris. Robe de dîner en crêpe de Chine rose pâle. Robe de dîner en soie armurée et surah uni. Modèles de chez Mmes de La Torchère et Sauveur, rue du CHerche-Midi, 67. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Toilette de dîner en crêpe de Chine rose pâle.

Cette robe faite en crêpe de Chine rose pâle, se compose d'une jupe unie et d'un corsage plat avec ouverture carrée. On ferme le corsage de vant sous un plastron en crêpe plissé, terminé au bord supérieur par une bande de soie blanche, brodée de paillettes; cette garniture se répère par derrière; on la borde devant et derrière avec des épaulettes en soie, brodée de paillettes entourées d'un volant de dentelle crème; les épaulettes se continuent jusqu'à la ceinture, faite en soie verte. Les manches ont des volants en dentelle.

Toilette de dîner en soie armurée et surah uni.

Cette toilette se compose d'une jupe et de manches en soie armurée crème, et d'un corsage avec ceinture et épaulettes en surah de même couleur. Le corsage plissé est réuni à la jupe par une ceinture Médicis, garnie au bord inférieur d'un galon de guipure, et au bord supérieur d'un ruban de velours rouge cerise. Un second ruban part depuis les coutures des manches, et se réunit au ruban de la ceinture. On pose sur le corsage des épaulettes carrées en guipure, placées devant avec de petits coins arrondis, contre le col droit recouvert en étoffe plissée. Les manches bordées de ruches plissées pnt sur les épaules de doubles épaulettes en étoffe plissée et unie; ces dernières sont entourées d'un galon de guipure.

—

Dinner ensemble in pale pink crepe de chine.

This dress, made in pale pink crepe de chine, consists of a plain skirt and a flat bodice with square opening. The front bodice is closed under a pleated crepe bib, finished at the upper edge with a band of white silk, embroidered with sequins; this garnish can be seen from behind; it is bordered in front and behind with silk shoulder pads, embroidered with sequins surrounded by a cream lace flounce; the shoulder pads continue to the belt, made of green silk. The sleeves have lace ruffles.

Dinner dress in weaved silk and plain surah.

This dress consists of a skirt and sleeves in cream weaved silk, and a bodice with belt and epaulets in surah of the same color. The pleated bodice is joined to the skirt by a Medici belt, trimmed at the lower edge with guipure braid, and at the upper edge with a cherry red velvet ribbon. A second ribbon starts from the sleeve seams, and meets the ribbon on the belt. Square guipure shoulder pads are placed on the bodice, placed in front with small rounded corners, against the straight collar covered in pleated fabric. The sleeves lined with pleated ruffles have double epaulettes in pleated and plain fabric on the shoulders; the latter are surrounded by a guipure braid.

[spiritedgoat]

Something Lost and something Found

[About 8 Months after the KFC breakup, cause ya'll know that shit still hurts me and I can't look at a kfc]

Staring at the people on the street walking aimlessly to their 9 to 5 jobs, low grade curses hanging onto and from most of them, without even knowing though feeling the burden of them and blaming others for their own pitiful lives. Squinting your eyes as you turned away. "Pathetic" you muttered to yourself. Cries from a soft sob caught your attention, it was coming from the back alley of one of the convenience stores you frequented. Looking around you followed the trail of sniffling.

Scanning the dark corners, your eyes landed on a little girl, she was small with short black hair. She must've been 6 maybe 7 as your best guess. Crying softly in the corner of the alley hugging her knees while clutching what must've been the leg..or arm? of an old fabric doll.

You walked closer to the girl, no one else around even bothered to help her nor spare a glance in her direction. You sighed, kneeling down in front of her. 'She must be lost…' The little girl finally looked up with her tear stained face, she looked even more scared, moving back against the wall. You reached out your hand showing you mean her no harm. "I'm not going to hurt you. Are you lost?". You frowned softly to yourself 'What the hell did they do to you?' She quivered and shook her head shortly up and down after weighing the words as if not believing them fully.

You looked at the scared little girl, teary brown eyes looking up at you, puffy from all the crying. "What's that you got there?" you asked pointing at the piece of fabric she had clutched in her hand. It looked as though she was going to start crying more from the question.

Reaching into your bag you pulled out a small stuffed doll. You looked at it sadly for a moment. It was the last thing Nina gave you. The doll looked like a little stiched up sack puppet, it was a puppet she made just for you. You breathed in a heavy breath and offered it out to the little girl, "Someone very special gave this to me when I was scared and alone, so he'll protect you just as he did me", hoping the doll would bring her some comfort. She looked at you with big doe like eyes unsure, taking the puppet from your hand she immediately hugged it to her little body. A little piece of your heart ached at the sight but you knew she needed it more than you. "So what's your name little lady?" you asked in a soft tone holding out your hand to the girl to help her up. She looked at you once more as if trying to assess if its a trick or not. She slowly took your hand, her tiny hands were freezing. "M-Mimiko…" a voice said just louder than a whisper. You smiled softly at her, standing up. "My name is Teng Shika, but you can call me Shika" Mimiko nodded ,standing next to you, one hand holding yours and the other holding onto the doll for dear life. "Who are we looking for?Mommy?Daddy?" The girl stayed quiet for a little moment before answering, "Daddy…"

You offered her a smile for reassurance, "And where were you last with daddy?" "….at the crepe shop…with Nanako" "Good, then we'll start there." You stated ,leading her to the street As soon as they reached the busy street with people walking from all directions Mimiko grabbed onto your pants, clinging to you as though to not let her go.

You looked down at her scared face, "Want me to pick you up…?" You studied her face, you were just as unsure as she was. You've never really been good with kids…

Mimiko looked up at you nodding softly burying her face against your pants Well okay then…no going back now I guess

Picking up the little girl, you scanned the area for a crepe shop. All the way on the furthest side of the street you saw the colorful doors of a little shop peeking out. 'That must be it then, we'll start there' You weaved through the crowds of people, occasionally looking at Mimiko. She had her face buried against your chest holding on to you, she refused to look at the people around you. 'How the hell am I supposed to find your dad when you won't even look at the people kid…' you thought to yourself frowning. You couldn't really blame her though, she was just a little kid and scared, what was she supposed to do?

"Is this the place Mimiko?" You asked stopping at the shop. It had colorful tables littering the seating area. Mimiko peeled herself from you and looked around quickly. It should definitely be the place judging by her reaction. "Can I put you down so we can walk around to look?" She shook her head quickly grabbing onto the fabric of your dark green sweatshirt. 'So that's a no then' "Alright let's take a look around, if you see him. Tell me okay?" "Okay" she answered softly. She was still scared and quite a shy kid you could tell.

You walked through the whole shop and to any person still near the shop waiting for any word from the little girl but still nothing. 'It's probably useless looking here now anyways, the guy must've started looking around for her by now' "What about we look a little further" You said walking through the little alley behind the shop leading to the other stores. You stopped quickly as Mimiko grabbed onto your sweatshirt and gasped. You looked at what spooked the little girl. It was a curse? Seems like she can see them too then…It was still a low level curse maybe a semi grade3 at most. You looked at the creature which looked something like a monkey had a weird bastard child with a naked mole rat. It wasn't attacking yet but rather climbing awkwardly around the dustbin to get a better look at the pair of you.

You stared at the spirit and looked back at the scared little girl. You had no choice but to exorcise it….Usually you'd go about your day ignoring them ,pretending they didn't exist just like any other 'normal' person. You put that life behind you and decided not to make it your problem anymore.

You sighed. Placing one hand on the back of Mimiko's head holding her close to you. Blood manipulation, piercing blood! With one quick slice the blood pierced right through the Cursed spirit's head. Quickly it evaporated into the familiar black smoke. "Guess I can still do that."

"Mimiko!" The voice rang out. Your head shot up to look at the source, must be her father.

A tall man approached you, he had mid back black hair half tied up in a bun and dark brown eyes. He looked on the defensive, you raised your hand to signal that you're no threat to his kid. "Master Geto!" Mimiko squeaked excitedly The man looked relieved that the girl seemed unharmed. "You must be the dad" "Something like that…." The man reached out his arms to take Mimiko from you

You lifted up the girl to give her to the man , she still had a tight grip on your sweatshirt. She looked at you and gave you a soft smile before letting go. It was the first time you saw any other expression other than fear or sadness on the little girl's face. "It's okay Nanako, you can come out now" the man said in a calm voice and another little girl appeared, she had had blonde hair tied up in a bun with bangs framing her face. She shyly hid behind the man's leg.

"Are you okay, Mimiko?" the man asked the little dark headed girl The little girl nodded, "She stabbed the bad bad with her blood!" You stared at the kid blankly not entirely knowing what to do or what you were going to say "Is that so? She exorcised the curse using her blood?" he said, back to looking defensive.

"Sorcerer?" You shook your head "Not any more"

The man visibly relaxed again "Anyways, I should get going…" You stated, though it was a lie you didn't really know what else to say to the man.

"No wait, I'm sorry. Thank you for looking after Mimiko and protecting her. How can I repay you?"

You smiled softly with a tinge of sadness, looking at the little girl who reminded you so much of her. "It's really nothing, anyone should've done the same." you said slowly walking away

You felt a little hand grab yours, "Shika…" her voice was just above a whisper

"But they didn't" You turned back to face the man, looking at the little girl's desperate face

"At least let me thank you with some tea" The man offered, "I don't live far from here"

You considered his words for a moment then looked at the girl practically begging you not to leave just yet. "My name's Teng Shika" you stated staring at the man.

He gave a soft smile bowing his head to you. "Getou Suguru"

So let me know what you guys think and if you'd like more because I have quite the few ideas for this story!